


The Lantern Bearer

by Cadogan



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Andraste - Freeform, Angst, Crisis of Faith, Dragon Age Quest: War Table Operation(s), F/M, Spoilers, War Table (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 05:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3557192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cadogan/pseuds/Cadogan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's too easy to mistake you for the Inquisitor." (Varric)</p><p>The Inquisitor makes life and death decisions every day and carries the faith of Thedas on his shoulders, but who can help an icon when his own faith wavers?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lantern Bearer

I meet Cullen’s eyes for a long, tense moment and an understanding passes between us; unspoken. There is sadness in the look he returns, and sympathy. I flick my eyes to Leliana and she drops her own gaze downwards. I can feel Josephine looking at me, hovering on the balls of her feet. I refuse to meet her eyes. My face feels numb and heavy, as if it would take a great effort to place an expression upon it. ‘Three breaths’ I say to myself silently, ‘three breaths and then you must acknowledge the decision you have already made.’ My eyes flicker across the detailed map of the passes on the Eastern side of the Frostbacks as I inhale, desperately searching, if I keep searching then hope stays alive; they stay alive. If we just knew where they were we could call upon an ally. My lungs fill up a second time. Perhaps an offer to the Avvar? They might listen if I name Sky Watcher as my ally… No. No good. The bird wouldn’t know how to return anyway, even if the Avvar could read any message I wrote. I let my third breath go in a sigh and I nod, handing the small, stained scroll to Cullen. On the edge of my vision I can see Josephine opening her mouth to speak but I hold up a hand and her words die upon her tongue. I have killed them. I avoid making eye contact with her as I turn and leave the room without another word.

...

I pass my hand across the flame. The bright, angry head of the candle shivers and dances as I circle my palm over it. In an instant the orange light is tinged with green and the flame is drawn out; stretched like a body on a rack as if drawn by a draught into a chasm. It passes through my hand and disappears. I feel nothing; just the numb trembling that has been with me since I awoke in Haven. As I gently move my hand the flame follows, drawn after it and falling away into the Fade. Looking up, Andraste’s impassive bronze face looms over me. Her features are made eerie by the flickering lights underneath her. I am sitting cross legged on the floor of the small shrine adjoining Skyhold’s garden. She looks over and past me, as though I were beneath her notice. Now I lift my right hand and hold it over one of the candles on that side of me. This time the flame stays a very earthly orange, and it flattens itself against my bare palm. It takes barely a moment to feel the heat, and then the pain. I hold my hand there and turn my eyes back to Andraste. My lip and my eyelid twitches involuntarily and my arm trembles; begging to pull away. It is a pinprick compared to the suffering she must have experienced when they burned her; when they made a living woman into an immortal, unchanging icon through flames. 

“What are you doing?” comes a cry of alarm from behind me. I grit my teeth in concentration. Andraste was tied and could not pull away, but then a strong grip snatches my arm away from the candle flame. I turn to see Cassandra above me. The dim light of the candles and the brazier giving her skin a similar bronze tone to Andraste. Her features are just as finely sculpted, but she is looking down at me. Her face is not serene but knitted in concern. I am suddenly aware that I am staring dumbly up at her and that I can feel an expression, the shade of a smile, upon my own face for the first time since this afternoon. She searches my eyes for answers silently for a few moments, and, blessedly, lets her questions wait for a while longer. She holds my wrist and turns my palm upwards. My Cassandra, always seeing the thing that must be done there and then. “Your hand!” she exclaims in horror and pulls me to my feet.

I allow her to lead me by the wrist to the well in the middle of the garden. We exchange no words beyond simple instructions as she fills a pale with the cold mountain water and plunges my hand into it. “Do not take your hand out of the water.” she commands me before going to the herb garden. For a while I feel at peace as I watch her moving through the garden and picking several elfroot leaves. She puts them in her mouth and chews them. After a minute or two the cold burns even more than the flame did. “What in the Maker’s name were you thinking?” There is anger there in her voice; just a note of it giving a little heat to her concern and confusion. I just sigh in reply. Part of me wants to answer her. Another part fears to. In either case I do not know how to. The words will not come. Instead there is just a tangle of thoughts. Though most would just have seen frustrated anger, I can see the hurt in her eyes when all I give her is a mute stare. Few things could make me feel more wretched.

Most of Skyhold is sleeping at this hour and and the garden does not require guards. We are alone with the carpet of stars above us, a breeze stirring the branches and the light of a string of lamps beside the path through the garden. With my hand completely numb, my writhing thoughts calm. Cassandra takes my burned hand from the water and examines the angry red blistering. “You will have to see a healer before you can hold a sword again.” she announces as she takes my fingers and gently moves them. The pain jolts me so hard that I shiver, but I bite back the yelp behind gritted teeth. I watch quietly as she takes the elfroot paste from her mouth and applies it to the burns, and wraps it in a soaked cloth.

“It’s too easy to mistake you for the Inquisitor.” I murmur after a while, more to myself than to her.  
“What?”  
“It’s something Varric said to me.”  
“As usual I have no idea whether Varric is being profound or merely foolish.” Cassandra’s observes dryly.  
“He meant that it was easy to forget that I am not just an icon, like a statue of Andraste holding bowls of fire.” I meet her eyes, “Sometimes I feel like that. I can sit on high and decree who lives and who dies. An icon can do that and feel nothing. It can have a skin of bronze or a hand that won’t burn.” She follows my eyes to the upturned palm of my left hand. The green glow of the fade softly illuminates her face with its strange light.

For a while she examines my hand in quiet. Then she says “Somebody has to make those decisions.” her words are spoken carefully, and weighted with meaning.  
I tense, “You have spoken to Cullen?”.  
“Yes.”  
“Then you know what I did.” It is not a question.  
Several days earlier a party of Chantry sisters had departed Skyhold with a handful of injured Inquisition soldiers. Their intention had been to tend to their wounds and their consciences as they accompanied them on the journey back to their homes in Ferelden. Instead they ran afoul of a warband of Avvar. Their only hope had been that the bird sent with them would find its way back to its roost in Skyhold with a desperate call for help.  
“I know that you did the right thing. The difficult thing.” I surprise myself by laughing, a bitter and hollow sound, and I tilt my head to look up at the cold, distant stars. She continues regardless. “The only forces that we have nearby are Lieutenant Kestral’s force, yes? And if you diverted them from their task, and the red templars that they are tracking escape, how many people would they take? You have seen what they do to their prisoners.”  
I shiver and fold my arms across my chest. “You are right…” I reply after a long pause, “Cullen was right. I was right.” I turn back to face her and I already regret the anger in my voice, but I cannot hold it back now. It rises like a tide as I speak. “We are right and they are dead. Perhaps they are already, but perhaps they are still breathing and do not know that they are dead. Maybe they are out there now in the cold; waiting for the people they thought were their friends to come to save them. The last cruelty those people will experience is hope, Cassandra; hope that that the Inquisitor…” my voice cracks and my eyes sting, and at once the fury evaporates “That I would not abandon them.” 

“Maker! Stop it!” Cassandra rushes to me and takes my hand, pulling on my fingers. It takes a moment for me to realise that I am clenching my right fist into a burning ball. Slowly I let her open my hand. I stare at nothing and let the pain in my hand wash all other thoughts away for a while. Cassandra’s hand on my arm is more gentle now. Her eyes are watching my face steadily. I realise that she is waiting for me to speak. 

“Did you ever notice the lanterns before?” I ask her, my tone conversational. She raises a quizzical eyebrow but she looks, following the line of lights along the path towards the shrine doorway. “I… suppose not, now that you mention it.”  
I shrug, “Neither did I. So much gets done here right under our noses. I just took it for granted until I came out here one evening and found someone lighting them. He’s just a soldier, but he comes out here every night and sets out these lanterns to light the way to the shrine. When I asked him about it he said that it was a habit. He ended up talking my ear off for over an hour about his mother back in Gwaren. He told me about her oatcake recipes and her sayings… I can’t remember most of them but there was one about stopping a pig in a ginnel that he seemed to find very funny.” I shake my head with a smile at the memory and glance at Cassandra to find her looking at me with an equally perplexed expression. Yet she seems content to let me go on with my story. “He told me about how she used to beat him with a broom when she found him drunk or fighting, or he was caught stealing. He told me about how she prayed every night for the Maker to make him a better man and keep him safe, and how she got the chantry brothers to drag him out of bed before dawn every day to sweep the paths and light the lamps to the chantry before morning prayers. ‘Mam were never so proud of me as when she saw them lamps lit.’ he said.” I attempt to affect the Southern Ferelden accent… poorly. 

When my story trails off Cassandra interjects, “She must have been proud of him for fighting with the Inquisition.” Part of me knows that she is doing just enough to keep me talking. I don’t mind.  
“He thought not. Apparently he left home to avoid questions that some gentlemen from the Teyrn’s law court wanted to ask him.” l fall silent as I gaze at the lamps.  
“It was nice of him to light our way tonight.” Cassandra casually prods me with a comment.  
“I did it.” I reply and even I can hear how hollow my voice sounds.  
“You?” It seems that I am full of surprises tonight, “What happened to your friend from Gwaren?”  
I look away, to my feet. “I was not his friend. I never even bothered to ask his name…” I pause... “He went home.”

That is all the clues that Cassandra needs. “With Sister Pauline.” she finishes my sentence. It is not a question. I try to reply but the words catch in my throat. I just nod and look up. With a sky this clear they would be freezing in the mountain passes now. Unless the Avvar had already killed them and taken their heads as trophies.  
“Their deaths are not your fault.” Cassandra says gently.  
“But they were my decision. The Icon Has Spoken. It seems like I make decisions like that every day. People die and I never even ask their names. We have seen so much death, Cassandra. Sometimes I don’t feel anything. I’m afraid of what I will become if I stop feeling it.”  
For a moment she is quiet. “More lives will be saved by your decision than will be lost.”  
I bury my head in my hands. “Oh good. If the arithmetic adds up do I get to feel good about myself?” At that Cassandra sighs. I can tell that she is becoming frustrated with me and is fighting that down. I add profound ingratitude to my list of things to feel guilty about.  
“Those men and women swore to serve the Inquisition, just as you did. I have seen you willing to risk your life, and lose it, no less than they. Tonight you did the best thing for our cause. They would understand. They believed in you.”

...And there it was. With those four words I could almost hear the voice of the Nightmare echoing in the Fade. “Your Inquisitor is a fraud, Cassandra….” Her deepest, unspoken fear; and mine.  
I jump up as if stung and take several steps away from her.

“They believed in me... and they died.” I can hear Cassandra rising from beside the well to come to me. I hold out a hand behind me. “Don’t!” I take three slow breaths. There is still time to pack my fears away and put my brave face back on. I am supposed to be their leader; their inspiration. How can I ask her to look into my bared heart and see doubt? If I cannot be her icon, then what am I to her? If I tell her how I feel, will I lose her? That thought makes my blood run cold in terror.  
On my third breath I know that all those questions are futile. There is no hiding it now. The die is cast. 

“Cassandra…” when I turn to look at her all I want is to run to her and take her in my arms and never let go, “I never claimed that I was the Herald of Andraste.” I look at the ground. I am too much the coward. If I were to see disappointment in her eyes it would break me. “I let others say it. I wanted it to be true. I even let myself believe it…” I wrench the admission from deep inside me and a voice in my head scolds me to look at her. If you must do this, damn you, look at her. I drag my eyes up to meet hers. Maker's breath, she is beautiful. The distance between us aches for me to fill it before it is too late. “You know that it was not Andraste that saved me at the Conclave. They called me Her herald, but if that was what I was wouldn’t there be something telling me what I should do? A herald carries a message. I heard no message…” I am almost hollowed out, but there is still one last, secret fear. “Is it the Herald that you see when you look at me, Cassandra? Is that what you want; some romantic hero riding to rescue? That’s just the icon that the Inquisition made me into... I’m just a man.” I have faced demons, darkspawn and dragons, yet I have never been so afraid or felt so exposed. My confession complete, I await sentence. I have sent my desperate message to a distant saviour and await their decision; will I live or will I die? I dare not move or take my eyes from her; as if it is the last time I will see her.

She moves, and her feet carry her to me. I feel a terrible kind of hope. When her hand touches my cheek it is soft and warm. “I have watched you lead us through danger, lies and nightmares.” her voice is rich and warm and soothing. “You have walked through horrors and atrocities and still found room in your heart to forgive. You have helped every one of us find the best in ourselves. If Andraste sent us a message, maybe it was you.” Her hand touches my cheek and her eyes shine in the lamplight as she looks into mine. “I do not need to have faith in an icon or The Herald. I just have to believe what I have seen with my own eyes. I believe in you.” 

I stand frozen to the spot, like a statue, afraid of breaking the spell that has brought her to me. She tilts her head and gently draws me down to her. Her lips when they touch mine are silken, a secret softness that so few see in her. They radiate the warmth and compassion which she hides beneath her steel. Slowly... slowly life begins to course through my numbed limbs and I lift my marked hand to trace the line of her jaw with my fingers. My thumb strokes her cheek. She responds by lifting her body up on the balls of her feet and her lips part in a sigh as we kiss. Her breath is a healing balm. Her arms circle around my shoulders and all at once a terrible weight is lifted from them. As our kiss grows deeper and more desperate there is a gasp in her breathing and I can taste something warmer and more ardent underneath the fragrance of elfroot. All other thoughts beyond her melt away. My unburned hand caresses the back of her neck and my fingertips run through her hair. I tremble as my bandaged hand runs down her side to the swell of her hip. My heart thuds hard in my chest and I am almost trembling as I resist the urge to touch her with the blistered palm. My fingers bunch in her clothing, pulling her in to feel the contours of her body against my own. Then, all at once, she breaks the kiss and steps away. With a smile she takes my hand and leads me from the garden.

…

I awake without remembrance of having fallen asleep. The balcony doors of my chambers have been opened and the morning light is streaming in. The bedsheets are tousled, but Cassandra is not there. She returns when I have not been awake for more than five minutes, and I am sitting on the bed bringing myself around. She strides briskly into the room. She is already dressed and carrying a small satchel. “Good morning.” I greet her.  
“Give me your hand.” is her greeting in reply. I do as I am told and hold out my bandaged right hand. “Are you sure?” I say to her with a smirk and a raised eyebrow, “We already learned that I am not much good with it at the moment.”  
In answer she flicks my earlobe, but the corners of her mouth are quirked upwards and there is a blush on her cheeks. She makes a poor display of putting on a straight face. “I see that you are feeling better.” she observes as she unwraps the cloth.  
“Thanks to you.”

Carefully she pulls away the packed elfroot paste and takes a bottle from the satchel. “I spoke to the herbalist and they gave me a remedy for your palm. You do not have the luxury of allowing this to heal for days.” She soaks a swab with an greenish fluid from the bottle, and uses it to dab my blistered palm clean. Then she reaches into the satchel again to pull out a linen bundle. Inside is a piece of silver bark a few inches long and a thick red paste in a jar. “She assures me that this will heal the blisters within a day.” Cassandra says as he carefully applies the paste to the inner side of the bark. Then she presses it to my burn and begins to wrap the hand in the linen.

It only takes a few moments before the tingle in my palm turns to an intense searing pain that flashes in jolts down the tendons of my arm all the way to my elbow. I grit my teeth and my eyes sting with water. “Oh… and she also told me that it would be very painful. Did I forget to mention that?”  
“That may have slipped your mind.” I reply in a strained voice.  
“Perhaps next time you will consider talking to me as an alternative to grand gestures involving flames?”  
“Perhaps I will.” I manage to chuckle. With my good hand I take hers and kiss it. “Thank you.”  
Then she smiles truly, and the sun rises for the second time that morning. Though the smile fades again quickly, replaced with uncertainty. “I have something else.” she says, hesitating, but then she produces a scroll from the satchel and offers it to me. I take it from her. “What is it?”  
“I spoke with one of Cullen’s adjutants, and asked for some names.”  
I unroll the paper. At the top, in Cassandra’s flowing hand, there is name: ‘Jennick’. Beside it is a note: ‘He made his mother proud by lighting the way for the faithful.’ Suddenly the stinging in my eyes has nothing to do with the pain in my hand. Beneath Jennick’s name is the name ‘Sister Pauline Rapace’, and a blank space beside it. There is a list of almost two dozen names down the left hand side of the page. “I am quite sure that this will be very painful, too.” Cassandra says gently, “But I thought that, perhaps, that is the way you would want it.”  
I take her hand and kiss it again. “I will have to find out something to write for all the others.” I say.  
“We will do it together.” she replies.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to DemonLife, a brilliant artist who created some gorgeous DA:I style tarot cards, one of which is based upon this story. Check out their work here: http://demonlife.deviantart.com/art/C-Ruan-556119833


End file.
